


Golden Scythe

by mstigergun



Series: Inglorious [9]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Awkward Flirting, F/F, Family Reunions, Gen, M/M, Skyhold, That's it, also there's a stolen tea set, distant cousins, oh my god so distant, post-haven, so many trevelyans, they share a last name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 12:52:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5049310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mstigergun/pseuds/mstigergun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>People have been arriving at their crumbling keep in the middle of the blighted mountains for days. They choke the courtyard and gather in awkward little knots in the great hall, lingering beneath the scaffolding, staring wide-eyed as the Inquisitor passes by. </i>
</p>
<p>Alla Trevelyan travels across the Waking Sea to speak with her brother and offer the Inquisition aid, if she's able. Leonid is unimpressed. And slightly horrified. Also, bad at fletching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden Scythe

**Golden Scythe**

*

> Golden Scythe 4:90 Black: _This battlefield spirit maintains a chill even in direct sunlight, which it appears to absorb. Optimal serving is by the drop. Contact with exposed flesh is discouraged, but likely inevitable._ (Found in a crate in Lothering)

*

People have been arriving at their crumbling keep in the middle of the blighted mountains for days. They choke the courtyard and gather in awkward little knots in the great hall, lingering beneath the scaffolding, staring wide-eyed as the Inquisitor passes by. At first, Leonid thinks it’s merely the devout showing up, though why anyone who hasn’t come to know the Herald would still believe their organization blessed by Andraste after Haven is beyond him.

Still, it makes a kind of sense: the Herald, pulled from the fires of destruction and the jaws of an archdemon, stands a beacon against the crumbling world. Devotion on the tails of such an _improbable_ salvation is almost… natural, for a select group.

A group of which Leonid is admittedly a part.

The rest, however? Those who keep coming, who offer aid that is relatively free of strings or conditions or endless _favours_? The nobles who clamber their ways through the mountains, the farmers and blacksmiths and petty thieves who make the trek as though it were a pilgrimage though they’ve nothing even nearing religious dedication?

Utterly and entirely perplexing.

Still, they’ve been coming for _days_ , and show no sign of letting up.

“Though _why_ ,” Leonid says, perched next to Sera on that little roof of hers as he tries to mimic whatever it is that she’s doing with her hands that turns feathers into fletching, “is beyond me. We’re not even gaining ground. Maker’s sake, we haven’t even made sure the blighted castle isn’t going to fall down around us yet, but here they are all the same – agog, mouths opened wide enough to catch _flies_.”

“Yeah, _flies_ ,” she snorts, the skin around her eyes crinkled with wicked delight behind her crooked bangs.

“I was being polite,” he intones. The tips of his fingers are red from the cold, stiff after being perched out here for far too long, working with these damned _feathers_.

She probably rolls her eyes or makes a face at him; he doesn’t see it, though, because again he’s wrestling with the fletching and the stupid arrow and the impossibly fussy sinew, which leaves white lines in the skin of his fingers as he tugs it tight. “It’s strange though, isn’t it,” he finishes, glaring down at the arrow in his hands. One of the feathers sags sadly to the side. “That they keep coming.”

“House in the alienage is on fire. Who comes to watch?” says Sera to his side. “Rich folk, poor folk, all folk. Isn’t _their_ house, so it’s just a pretty fire, yeah? So long as it _stays_ not theirs, they keep watching.”

He looks up, squinting at the most recent trail of men and women slipping beneath the grand gates – their horses and wagons, fluttering flags, sumptuous furs, glinting armour. Though he can’t make out the whites of their eyes at this distance, he can imagine the wide-eyed stare about the castle. _I thought it’d be nicer_ , one might hiss to her companion. _Is **this** where they expect to mount a campaign? How unlikely!_

Of course, he thinks. They’ve come to watch the Inquisition’s house burn to cinder.

Which is when he stabs himself in the finger. “ _Fuck_ ,” Leonid yelps, hand jerking back.

Sera cackles. “Now it’s your house, kitten fingers!”

Leonid brings his hand up to stare at the blood welling on the tip of one finger, shooting her a dark look. “ _Kitten_ fingers,” he repeats.

“‘Cause they don’t have them, kittens. Fingers. So they’re rubbish at _fletching_.”

“Well,” snaps Leonid, “you’re rubbish at making sense. And _instructing_ , apparently.”

“You just pricked yourself. Next time you won’t. See? Learning.” She pauses, then laughs again – that loud, sharp cackle that could set hairs on end were it not, in its own repulsive way, _endearing_. _“Pricked_ yourself. Get it?”

Leonid rolls his eyes, sniffing in the cold air. “Yes, _Sera,_ I get it. And I guarantee that would be a great deal more fun than this. Fletching stupid arrows because we’ve too many archers and not nearly enough armourers – and the ones who do show up are apparently more interested in watching our house burn.” He sighs, then, sucking the bead of blood from his finger. “See? You’re infectious. That metaphor made sense.”

Another laugh as she kicks her heels into the air over the edge of the roof. “Scary, right?”

“Indeed,” he says, staring out across the broad, chill courtyard – a spartan insulation against the endless sky above them, the vicious peaks surrounding them. Were theirs a nicer keep, he might imagine it kept the wilds at bay – kept… everything at bay.

As it is, Skyhold is a meager comfort.

And apparently a _spectacle_ for travellers stupid enough to brave the Frostbacks for the sake of curiosity. His eyes narrow, staring out at the cluster of new arrivals inside the main gate.  “Blighted _nobles,”_ he mutters, glaring at them in their shining armour, their fur ruffs, their –

His gaze catches on one woman, who stands taller than those around her. Even at the distance, he can make out the way the chill sunlight catches on her armour, polished to a hard gleam; can see the intricate knotwork of her hair, the curiously familiar sword strapped across her back.

She turns, breath misting the air. The woman is sturdier than the lanky guards around her, though she proffers a hand in greeting nonetheless, shoulders straight and unfaltering. The sunlight catches a curl of hair that’s escaped her intricate knots and now brushes one cheek, face angling toward the tavern as she ducks her head to catch something one of Cullen’s soldiers has said and –  

Leonid drops the arrow he’s been working on, and a breeze catches it and sends it over the edge of the roof.

_“Again?”_ asks Sera to his side. “Maybe I _am_ a shite teacher. Or you’re a shite student. Either way, that’s a shite arrow.”

Leonid wrenches his attention away from the distant courtyard and shoots Sera a wide-eyed look, his skull buzzing, the light suddenly far too bright, the air far too thin this high in the mountains. Against his eardrums, the sludgy echo of his heartbeat – like he’s missed a step going down the stairs, only this is like tumbling into the fucking _Void,_ this collision of what he expect and what he most certainly _does not_.

“No,” he says distantly. “It’s not that, Sera.”

“Then _what?”_ Confusion creases her brow, freezes the jovial twist of her mouth – stuck between expressions, like she expects he’s full of shit but he’s caught her off guard.

Fair enough, Leonid thinks. He huffs out a jagged little breath, nose cold, and looks back across the courtyard to where the woman is lost in serious conversation with the guard captain on duty, the man tossing an arm out and pointing deliberately toward the tavern. She pivots, and Leonid knows she sees him.

He swallows, pushing himself away from the edge of the roof and toward Sera’s open window. “It’s just – It’s my sister. Alla is at Skyhold.”

*

She finds him inside, but not before _he_ finds his way to a much needed drink. It is, Leonid thinks distantly as he hides himself away upstairs to numb the jagged edges of his thoughts with alcohol, what they do: Alla sets goals and achieves them. Leonid _drinks_ and does his very best to avoid the dutiful structure his sister imposes on all those who surround her.

Leonid hears her before he sees her, tucked away behind the staircase on the second floor with several fingers of bourbon. Her boots strike the floor, firm and clear footfalls. Never a moment’s hesitation.

He rolls his eyes and tosses back the drink.

“Already?” Her voice is precisely as he remembers: a slight rasp at its edge, but unwavering, and full to the fucking _brim_ with her blighted sense of superiority. How accustomed he is to that judgment – _Out again all night, Leonid? When did you last pick up your bow to practice, Leonid? Are you quite certain you need another glass of wine with dinner?_ That she never quite manages to hear his answers – which would be _naturally, never,_ and _very certain_ – is a necessary component of their dynamic, wretched though it is.

Leonid tosses a look over his shoulder, squinting through the dim light at Alla. The cold air has left her flushed across the high cheekbones that mirror his own, but her shoulders are square, eyes bright even in the gloom. Even her armour, polished as it is to such immaculate condition that Leonid is certain Cullen would _swoon,_ manages to catch the faint light fighting its way through the grimy windows.

Disgusting.

He sniffs. “My sister’s shown up at Skyhold. I think that warrants a drink,” with the tip of the glass her way.

Of course he doesn’t specify whether it’s a drink in _celebration_ or _consolation._

Alla blinks at him. For a moment, her eyes narrow. Then, “I suppose it might. Did you want another?”

Leonid scoffs. “Of _course_ I want another. I assume you’re going to want to _talk_ about something, so I’d better do my best to be half-drunk by the time you start in about _duty_ and, I don’t know, _valor_ or whatever the fuck it is you like to prattle on about.”

She huffs, shakes her head in disbelief. It’s a gesture he can bring out in her more swiftly than any other. Even Viktor, who’s prone to sermonizing, rarely summons _that_ look.

How good to know he hasn’t lost his touch. Leonid shoots her a sweet smile. So that she knows he’s still playing nice.

Alla watches him, eyes flicking over his posture – he keeps his back pointedly to her, only half-turning to stare his sister down. She sighs, then, a sharp sound, ribs rising and falling beneath the gleam of her armour. “Very well, Leonid” says Alla. “I’ll fetch another. Still bourbon?”

His smile stays in place. “Still bourbon,” he says.

She disappears into the depths of the tavern, and Leonid’s granted a moment to collect his thoughts – to determine precisely how he wants to go about having this little _reunion_ of theirs. Were he not confined to a very small keep, made smaller by the large sections under repair or rendered uninhabitable, he might manage to _avoid_ her. Though he’s never been one to run from familial conflict.

She’ll have come for a _reason,_ of course. Alla isn’t the sort to traipse across the Waking Sea on a whim – and she’s not the sort to throw her lot in with the Herald. She has always been a traditionalist, just like their entire wretched family. Compared to Viktor’s insipid devotion and Yuliya’s endless love for the Maker and Iona’s unfathomable passion for crumbling books about ancient _verbs,_ Leonid’s lot in life has to perpetually be the _immoderate_ among a group decidedly not.

If she’s here to – Well, he can’t come up with a reason why she _would_ be here. It’s like an entirely unpleasant collision of two realms meant to be forever kept apart: Leonid’s awful little family, and his –

Friends, he supposes. His life _here,_ a life made all the better for its distance from who he was in Ostwick.

His thoughts are cut short by footfalls again sounding up the stairs of the empty tavern. Alla moves past the railing, a glass in either hand, and sits down across from Leonid. A heavy gesture, one he might _almost_ think was weary if he didn’t know her far, far better than that. She shrugs off her sword, leaning the tall blade against the wall and unclasping the cape that trails from her broad shoulders. Shadows catch beneath her jaw, hook the shape of her nose just _there,_ where it was broken.

He remembers when that happened, of course. When she moved with a weariness that was _real._ When shadows gathered beneath her eyes and her forehead seemed forever creased.

Leonid looks away, down at the drink sitting before him. He tosses it back and slams the glass down. If he’s resolute enough, Leonid thinks distantly, surely he will be able to turn Alla aside – to set her off on the scent of someone else, focused as a hound chasing quarry through the woods. Better that than – whatever it is she’s here for.

“So,” Alla says, tugging off her supple gloves and dropping them on the tacky surface of the table. She leans back in her chair, hooking one arm over the back; it’s almost a sprawl, which immediately makes him suspicious. “You’re the same as you were when you left.”

“How _remarkable,”_ Leonid drawls. “The glorious presence of the Herald hasn’t _sanctified_ me. And here you were, thinking you’d find me in a Sister’s robes.”

“Sanctified,” she repeats, incredulous. Then, with the slightest twitch of her lips, “Though never in a Sister’s robes, brother. I know you at least that well.” It’s soft, chased with a small huff of breath that _might_ be a laugh – except it’s _Alla_ and so it _can’t be_ , just as she can’t have meant –

Alla picks up her glass and tips back the bourbon.

He expects her to sip. She doesn’t. In a flash, it’s gone.

Leonid’s forehead creases, something unsettled curling and uncurling inside of his stomach. His finger taps against the lip of his empty glass.

“I meant the hair,” Alla clarifies finally. “And the propensity to being _sullen_ and _half-drunk_. But mostly the hair. Although it’s starting to fade, isn’t it? And you usually keep it up so well.”

Heat prickles up the back of his neck. His mouth curls into a scowl. “My _hair,”_ he says. “If you hadn’t noticed, Alla, we’re in the middle of the blighted Frostbacks. I can hardly go for a stroll to the market and find an alchemist now, can I? Here I am, hard up against the _brutal realities_ of the world. But, if we’re on the topic, whatever it is you’ve done with yours is awful. A braid did always suit you more, but I suppose that’s never been a concern. So long as it’s _practical.”_ The word leaves a bad taste in his mouth, as it always has. A vile thing, pragmatism. So much less fun than any and all other options.

“You don’t approve?” asks Alla, brows inching up her forehead, face a perfect sketch of innocence. “Well, Maker preserve me, I’ll have to change it immediately.”

For a moment, he feels as though he’s looking in a mirror – except one that renders him dreadfully dull indeed. The worst possible rendition of all that he might be.

“You’d best,” he snaps. “I don’t want anyone to think that your _plainness_ reflects on _me._ I’ve a reputation to uphold, Alla, and I can’t have you waltzing into Skyhold and tarnishing it.”

“Somehow I doubt I’ll damage your reputation,” she murmurs, the smallest smile curling her lips. “Shockingly, that was not my purpose in coming.”

Leonid shifts, pushing his glass forward on the table, again drumming his fingers against its lip. “No?” he asks, voice thinner than he’d intended. “Then why _are_ you here?”

He expects a blunt answer. That is, after all, what Alla _does:_ get straight to the point, with none of the politicking favoured by their parents. It may be her one commendable virtue, however irritating her straightforward judgment can be when turned in Leonid’s direction.

However, she only sighs again. “There are – a number of reasons.”

For a moment, she mimics his gesture, pushing her glass forward with calloused fingers. Then, no doubt thinking better of it, she sets it resolutely on the side of the table. Neatly moved out of the way.

Leonid scowls. “Like what?” he intones. “Bored of swinging your sword in the back gardens? Eager to murder a templar or two? So unlike you. I’d have thought you’d be the first to throw your lot in with their forces.”

That gets her attention. Alla’s light eyes flash as her head jerks back, though still she’s got her arm hooked across the back of her chair, legs kicked out between them. “Why would I do that?” she asks.

As if she doesn’t know. “Because you’re – _devout.”_

She blinks once, twice. “Am I?” she asks. Then, with a shrug that makes him think of anyone _but_ his sister, “Well, that’s a surprise.” Alla unhooks her arm from the chair and leans forward, shooting him an entirely perfunctory smile. “In any case, Leonid, I’m here largely to be of assistance to the Inquisition, so you needn’t worry that I’ll disrupt your everyday life. The other reasons – well, they’ll keep. I mean to go speak with Commander Cullen. There are matters that require attention.” She pushes herself up from the table, once again clasping her cape to her shoulders and strapping on her greatsword.

Irritation buzzes at the back of his skull. To have her look at him so _placidly,_ to be so utterly sure of her _use_ here. To be –

All that she is.

“How ever would we manage without your _attention,”_ Leonid mutters, looking past her toward the grimy windows across the room. Anywhere but at _her,_ he thinks. If she thinks she can somehow make a place for herself here, elbow him out of the way and –

“Just fine, I expect,” she says, plain and unassuming. “Though if I’m here, I might as well lend a hand. After all,” and her mouth curls into a smile that Leonid finds entirely unsettling, “I wouldn’t want to negatively impact your _reputation._ And rumour has it you’ve made yourself rather invaluable.”

_Invaluable._ Of course that would be something she’d never imagined: her useless brother, _invaluable._ The bitterness of the thought shapes his mouth into a vicious smile. “Does that surprise you? Lenya, managing to do more than _drink his way to an early grave_.”

Alla peers down at him, brows drawn together. “It doesn’t surprise me at all,” she says, firm. “You’ve always wanted to be helpful. And you’ve always been quite devout.”

Her words are like ice water slipping down the hot skin of his neck. Leonid straightens. “I – _no I haven’t_ ,” he blusters. “I – I’m not _devout_.”

“You wrote Mother that the Inquisitor is certainly the Herald, and that your place is by his side.” Her eyes narrow. “You _did_ mean that, didn’t you?”

“I was – _trying to upset her_ ,” he sputters. “Although _of course_ the Inquisitor has been chosen by Andraste: anyone who meets him for all of three moments can see that.” A moment later, and he’s folded his arms across his chest, glaring up at her. She _towers,_ like a fucking _institution._ And though he won’t denounce the Herald, he can do a little to reinstate something like his pride. He clears his throat. Shifts. “But I’m only here because _here_ is better than _Ostwick,_ and because I’m very likely to be disowned the moment I go home again. That’s why, Alla, not because – I can’t believe you would even _think_ it. I’m hardly _devout._ Andraste’s holy tits, that you would get that impression – ”

“Naturally,” Alla says, standing broad-shouldered in the space between Leonid and the nearest escape route. A veritable _wall_ in her armour and cape and with her blighted sword. Her damnable _steadiness._ “A mistake on my part. You aim to upset our parents; you have, of course, succeeded. Though you’re unlikely to be disowned. Rather… the opposite, in fact. But we’ll save that for later.” She turns and moves toward the staircase, Leonid glaring hard at her shoulders.

It’s as though she can feel him seething at her shoulders, because Alla pauses, turning to fix him with a bright stare that he can’t interpret beyond _attentive._ “It is good to see you again, Leonid,” she says finally. “And in your usual fine form.”

Like that, she heads out, and leaves Leonid to stare daggers at the shadows collecting in the empty tavern.

*

Of course, she doesn’t just disappear, like Leonid half-hopes she will. Instead, he keeps catching _glimpses_ of her throughout the entire blighted day: here, speaking with Commander Cullen as the walk the ramparts; there, chatting with one of the engineers about the elaborate scaffolding in the main hall; later, introducing herself to the Inquisitor and smiling in at Josephine in a way Leonid can only think to describe as _entirely untoward and wholly unbecoming of his sister_.

Not that she seems to notice his ire.

He is at least comforted by the promise of another evening spent in the tavern, but even that becomes – an _issue._ Because of _course_ she shows up just as he’s followed Basten to the bar to see if he can’t pry his companion away from Kata-Meraad for at least a little while.

Not that he needs to. It’s just –

Well, Basten’s pleasant enough company, and after Leonid’s ill-advised conversation with Alla, and her presence around Skyhold – which itches at him like a burdock caught on the inside of a sleeve – Leonid is in dire need of some easy conversation.

And a few other things.

It’s only _just_ as Leonid’s hand has found its usual place on the swell of Basten’s upper arm, just as he’s leaned in, his skin pleasantly warm and his mouth curved into a smile he does not, in any way, mean to make, that Alla steps in through the broad door.

He sees her immediately, past the shape of Basten’s broad shoulders. Leonid freezes, and Basten frowns. “What is it?” he asks, head immediately swivelling so that he can stare behind them at the door and –

He fixes Leonid with a curious stare, light from the candelabra above them catching his eyes. “Is that _your sister?_ ”

“What?” breathes Leonid, word lodged in his throat. He steadfastly refuses to allow his head to turn to he can look at her as she pushes past the door, but he can imagine her brushing the soft snow from the shoulders of her cloak. He saw her earlier: she’d shed her armour for more practical leathers, though she kept a short blade at her side and her hair done in that _awful_ series of woven plaits that made her look even more boring that she already was. “No – well,” with a hard sigh, _“Yes._ Alla’s come. But we’re not going to talk about that and you’re –”

“I want to meet her,” says Basten.

“You’re not _meeting her_ ,” Leonid hisses, fingers tightening against Basten’s arm. “That’s –”

“Hello,” says a firm voice to Leonid’s side.

Leonid’s hand drops away, and he turns to stare at his sister. “Shouldn’t you be _practicing_ something?” he asks, waspish.

“Oh, I am,” Alla says. “I’m practicing ignoring that tone of voice.” Then, to Basten, “I’m Alla Trevelyan. Leonid’s older sister.”

“Basten Adaar,” he says, reaching to clasp her hand. Then, because presumably they’re able to _communicate_ something stupid by merely clasping palms, Basten’s eyebrows jump up in surprise, a delighted smile flashing across his features. “And you’re a warrior.”

“I _try,”_ says Alla with a laugh. “And you’re –”

“A mage with a Qunari mercenary company,” Leonid fills in, reaching and grabbing Alla’s shoulder. “Yes, yes, he’s very good at killing things and I’m sure the two of you would like to talk about _murder_ and _armour_ and _how very fun it is to bash things with large weapons_ , but we’re quite busy at the moment. I’ve a litany of people for my dear sister to meet, and you are but the first name on that list, Basten. So if you don’t mind, I simply _must_ introduce Alla to Sacha and Eloise. Immediately. At this very moment.”

Because there is no way he is going to allow these two to start in about _fighting_ or, Maker forbid, the _shoulder incident_. He shoots Basten a quick smile that _may_ show a little more panic than is strictly wise, and still Leonid steers Alla away from the bar and toward the stairs that wind up to the second level. As they’re passing Maryden, who launches in on the chorus from her song about Sera, much to the delight of the knot of half-drunk soldiers in the back corner, Alla shrugs her way out of his grip.

“And how long has _that_ been going on, Leonid?” she asks as they pause at the bottom of the stairs, shooting him a look out of the corner of her eye. She even tips her head back toward the bar where Basten still stands, as if she wasn’t clear enough.

Always to the point, Alla.

He huffs, heat prickling across the expanse of his shoulders. “How long has that – Nothing’s _going on_ , Alla. There’s absolutely no reason to assume –”

Alla blinks at him. “Really,” she says, stopping to lean against the banister at the bottom of the stairs. Maryden’s song wraps up and she launches immediately into a short little ditty she’s been tinkering on that Leonid could _swear_ mentions something about being _bolder_ and shooting someone in the _shoulder._ “So you’re telling me that the two of you look at each other like _that_ and you’re _not_ fucking? Why, Leonid, I’m actually disappointed!”

The shock of hearing her mention _fucking_ throws him off balance. For a moment, he’s certain that the world is reeling around him. _His sister_. A breath later, and his sense of pride kicks in. “Of course we’re fucking. Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve _seen_ him.”

“Mother hasn’t breathed a word,” she says. “And I am most certain she would. I’d hear her crying over her tea: _a Qunari and an apostate. Maker preserve me!_ ”

It’s an impression that is eerily accurate – enough to make the hairs at the back of Leonid’s neck rise and a shudder run its way down his spine. “Well,” he says, once the sensation has passed, “You won’t have heard anything because Mother doesn’t _know._ Believe it or not, I don’t feel the need to inform our parents of each and every person I’ve had sex with. Once, I thought about starting an enumerated list, but ultimately decided against it. _No_ , I said, _that would take too long, and they wouldn’t be at all appreciative of the thought and detail I put into my cross-referencing system_.”

“No, that would be Iona, wouldn’t it.”

“If his heart didn’t give out on him first,” says Leonid. “ _How many men_ , he’d say – and you know how he _blushes_ , Alla, so he would be red as a beet. _And now a Qunari!_ ”

Her lips twitch. “So you _are_ seeing him. Basten Adaar.”

“I’m – We’re _fucking,_ as I said. That’s the sum total of it. We drink together and sometimes he accompanies me when I head out on missions on behalf of the Herald. Which I do, you know,” he adds, half-frantic under her perceptive, level stare. “The Herald asks for me _specifically.”_

Alla merely blinks placidly at him. “I’m sure he does. He did have some very kind things to say about your efforts… and Basten’s. Lady Montilyet was sure to make a point of how _well_ you work together, and how close you seem to be these days.”

A particularly horrifying thought, that others have noticed. That they’ve drawn _conclusions._ That those others include, Maker preserve him, the Herald and his closest advisors. “We’re – There’s nothing _going on_.”

“Of course,” she intones. “I wouldn’t assume otherwise. You are, after all, my youngest brother. Everyone knows you have a reputation.”

“A point of pride,” Leonid sniffs. His head twists as Basten passes by them and, with a quick smile, heads up the stairs to their side. Alla’s gaze follows his broad back as he disappears to the room above.

Her attention falls on Leonid again, like bearing the full force of the sun. Uncomfortable, and prone to make him _dizzy_ if there’s prolonged exposure. “Though I am curious. You said you’re _just fucking_. What else do you think _could_ be going on between you and your… companion? I seem to recall that you _couldn’t even dream of anything more_ because you _might die of boredom at the very notion_.”

He feels his cheeks redden, though he pretends they don’t. Because they’re _not allowed_ , especially not when it’s _Alla_ who’s – “Do you recollect everything I’ve ever said with such clarity?” he snaps. “A rather awful parlour trick.”

“I only bother remembering words I suspect you’ll have cause to eat later.”

“I –”

But it’s a pointless battle. He rolls his eyes, huffing out an incredulous laugh and ignoring the feel of the flush lighting up his face. Judging from the gleam in Alla’s eyes, however, she doesn’t miss a thing. Why, she’s very nearly as bad as –

“That reminds me,” says Leonid happily, because what he needs _very badly_ at the moment to throw Alla off his scent, “that I must introduce you to Sacha and Eloise. Do you recall, Alla, when I said that I thought Mother had invented the other Trevelyans just to scare us?” He gestures to the stairs, and they move up to the second level.

“I remember,” says Alla.

“Well, it turns out that they are, indeed, very real. You know the story?”

“About the stolen tea set? Of course. Such injustice! How could anyone forget?”

He laughs, then. “Ah, well. We must do our very best to forgive _and_ forget.”

In one corner, and precisely where he’d left them earlier when he left to chase after Basten, sit Eloise and Sacha. It’s no small feat to manage to drag Sacha to the tavern, but he’s been considerably more pliant to the suggestion since their trek through the mountains.

Indeed, he’s been rather more present on the whole. And terribly kind, prone to saying things that are _insipid_ and _stupid_ and –

Sacha looks up, a familiar smile on his features. For a moment, his attention jumps to Alla, and his eyes flare wider – surprised. He stands, because of _course_ he would.

Leonid sighs, steering Alla toward the table. “So,” he says, when they’re close enough to be in earshot, “This is my sister Alla. Alla, Sacha Trevelyan – no doubt you two will get along famously. _Oh, you also like sparring and swords and boring military things? Let’s talk about technique forever!_ ”

Alla laughs, reaching and clasping Sacha’s hand in her own. “A pleasure,” she says.

“The pleasure is all mine, Lady Alla,” Sacha murmurs.

“Oh,” she says, surprised. “You’re Orlesian!”

His smile stays in place, likely because she doesn’t say it with the tone Leonid likes to use when saying the word _Orlesian._ “I trained to be a Templar in Val Chevin,” Sacha says.

_“Did_ you? We’ll have a great deal to talk about, then, if you don’t mind. My sister –”

Leonid huffs. “ _Speaking of sisters_ ,” he interrupts, “This is Eloise. One of the finest mages working with the Inquisition, and our cousin.”

Eloise, for her part, has gone rather still. Alla’s attention pivots, and her mouth curls into a smile. “Ah, well,” she says, eyes bright, “That’s a pity.”

Leonid stares at his sister. Maker, he thought she had more tact – but then she always _has_ favoured being blunt. Much to the continuing horror of their mother. “What,” says Leonid, “That’s she’s an _apostate?_ Come now, Alla, I had expected you to be more sensible. Eloise is entirely safe, although if you keep _insulting_ her –”

A brief laugh, which cuts Leonid off. He stares at her, bewildered. To see her _smiling_ like this, and _laughing._ “No, Leonid,” Alla says, “not because she’s a mage. Although – Tell me, Lady Eloise.” She extends a hand to clasp Eloise’s in her own. “Just how distant _is_ our relation?”

For a heartbeat, Eloise is silent, her hand folded in Alla’s. Then, “Distant enough that our brothers have already taken advantage of it,” she says, with a sly look shot Leonid’s way – one that would seem half-irritated were it not Eloise’s characteristic expression when poking at Leonid in ways she suspected would annoy him and therefore delight _her._

“They _have,_ have they?” Alla releases Eloise’s hand.

Next to them, Sacha laughs, a slow blush spreading across his dark cheeks. “Shall I bring us a round of drinks? In celebration of your arrival, Lady Alla.”

“Maker, _yes,”_ sighs Leonid. “And while you’re at it, you can drop the _lady._ Alla’s hardly a lady, unless,” with a pointed look at his sister, “you’ve managed to marry since I left Ostwick.”

Alla’s mouth twists itself into an irritated line, but the expression is gone in a moment. Smoothed back to a banal pleasant look. “Hardly. Though not for our parents’ lack of _trying.”_

Sacha smiles at her again, something almost sympathetic, and disappears to the lower room, through the buzzing clusters of patrons growing louder over their drinks and gambling. If Leonid cranes his head, he can see Raset and Basten involved in some complicated card game Leonid’s gotten _very_ good at. Basten’s gaze flicks up and meets Leonid’s, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. He lifts his cards – an offer.

Leonid feels the desire to be _there_ at Basten’s side as keenly as though he were parched and staring at a swiftly-running stream. Basten is precisely what he needs at the moment: gambling and drinking and fucking and easy _jokes._ Not – Alla. Not any of this.

“Do you mind?” Alla asks Eloise, gesturing to a chair at her side.

“Of course I don’t mind,” Eloise says, curt. Her syllables sharp and short.

Leonid flicks his attention back to her again – it’s not that it’s particularly _unusual_ for her to be short, but she rarely looks so – unsettled.

His eyes narrow, but Alla seems unperturbed. “So, Leonid,” she says. She settles down and looks up at Leonid, who still hovers and the end of the table, as sitting down would be far too close to committing himself to _staying_ – the very last thing he wants. “Am I to deduce that you were sleeping with one of the _other_ Trevelyans and you _didn’t_ tell Mother? I’d have thought that would be at the very top of your list.”

He scoffs. “I – As wretched as she is, I didn’t want to _kill_ her. At least not without first securing a portion of her inheritance for myself. How miserable I would be if I murdered her with a letter only to have you and Viktor benefit. And me, doing all of the hard work.”

Alla snorts, leaning back in the chair. “Somehow I doubt the work was that challenging. Not for you, surely.”

Leonid stares at her. “Not for –”

“He certainly made a point of _practicing,”_ says Eloise lightly.

Alla barks out a laugh. “Of course. And so we find our devotion _after all_.”

It won’t do. Leonid sniffs, arms folded hard across his chest. A moment later, and Sacha’s reappeared with a collection of mismatched tankards on a little tray. Leonid reaches and plucks one away. “Well, then,” he says, shooting a look over his shoulder to where Basten’s laughing at something Raset has just said. “I’m off. You can occupy yourselves by talking about who I’m fucking, since it is the nearest either of _you_ are to actually getting laid.”

Eloise snorts as Sacha goes perfectly still next to him. Leonid scoffs again, pushing his way past the table and toward the corner where Kata-Meraad gambles coin that will, in short enough order, belong entirely to Leonid.

But even the noise of the tavern can’t eat up Alla’s amused laugh. “He _does_ like to bluster, doesn’t he?” she says, the rasp of her voice cutting through the laughter that’s thick in the air. Leonid spares a moment to turn and glare at her, but her gaze has fallen squarely on Eloise, mouth curled in a wry little smile that’s – unfamiliar and _eerie,_ really. He pauses, then, just around the corner of the banister and still within earshot. Because if they’re going to talk about _him_ –

“It is quite endearing,” Sacha offers, blessed man.

Eloise huffs, ignoring Sacha’s comment. “That he does. Do theatrics run in your side of the family?” Leonid can see, even at this distance, the darkening of the very tips of her ears, which is so familiar that it makes him want to –

Drink a very great deal.

“Unfortunately, yes. Maker, when you get all of us in the same room…”

Leonid starts in on his drink and heads off resolutely toward Basten’s table. He hardly needs to hear Alla recounting some _hilarious_ story about a family gathering. He certainly doesn’t need to see her win Sacha and Eloise. Though when she became so very _charming_ is entirely beyond Leonid. He’s accustomed to Alla being very serious indeed, and studious and –

“So,” Basten says, as soon as Leonid sits himself down in the chair closest to him. “Your sister.”

“We’re not talking about her,” Leonid snaps. “Maker help me, bad enough that I’ve got to _deal_ with her. Worse still that she becomes a topic of _conversation_ when all I would like to be doing is drinking.”

“That’s all, is it?” asks Basten, with a wicked half-smile.

Leonid feels heat gather beneath his skin. “At first,” he murmurs. Then, a little more loudly, “And may Andraste cut me down if Alla comes up during _anything else_.”

“Now, now,” says Raset, dealing him a little stack of cards, “Not so quick, spitfire. Does she lose coin as quick as you?”

He scoffs. “Tell yourself what you must. We all know I’ll be leaving here with your coin in my palm.”

_“Something_ in your palm,” she offers.

Leonid rolls his eyes and tips back the tankard. It’s time he was deliriously drunk, he thinks. Past time. And with Basten’s arm slung easily over the back of his chair, a warm weight there whenever Leonid leans back, his thumb occasionally brushing the curve of Leonid’s shoulder and making Leonid’s skin flash hot just like _that,_ well.

Forgetting about Alla is almost easy. Forgetting that his house may be burning is easier still.

*

Her issue lies not with being left to converse with strangers. Had Leonid stayed, lingering with his sullen stares and vicious jibes, she would have found no comfort there either: there’s no one else in the world who she finds nearly so _strange,_ though they’ve had years to try and work to an understanding. She had spared a faint hope that perhaps his time with the Inquisition might have smoothed his rougher edges, or at least given him something beyond his own imagined woes to focus on, but he’s shown himself to be precisely as he was when he left Ostwick.

It doesn’t change why she’s here. It just makes her reception a little colder – but Alla has never been afraid of a chill.

And so she doesn’t mind being left to get to know two strangers. Even were Sacha and Lady Eloise not so kind – or, as in Eloise’s case, _polite_ if somewhat _curt_ – Alla entirely believes she can make herself at home in whatever circumstance she finds herself in. This particular situation is only made easier as her company is held in such high esteem within the Inquisition, an organization clearly doing its level best to restore the world to order.

Rather, it’s her _introduction_ that gives her pause, setting an unease itching at the back of her mind. When finally their conversation comes to a brief lull – though, in truth, it’s a conversation carried entirely by she and Sacha, who fall into the sort of easy repartee common to so many warriors – Alla decides it’s time to clear her mind.

She sets her empty tankard on the end of the table, turning in her seat to fix her attention more firmly on Lady Eloise. “I should… apologize on behalf of my brother,” she begins. “And myself, I suppose. I don’t mean to have imposed on your good graces. And while I can’t speak for Leonid’s intentions, certainly he should have been polite enough to linger.”

“It is no imposition, Lady Alla,” says Sacha, with a slow smile that turns her mind to warm hearthstones and sunlight across blankets. He is, she thinks, precisely what Templars _ought_ to be – precisely what Yuliya had hoped the Order might be.

How sad that reality so rarely aligns with potential.

His gaze slides for a moment to his sister, who sits in a silence Alla can only describe as _prickly._ “We are delighted to meet you,” Sacha continues. “Just the other day, we were discussing our friend Leonid and wondering about his family, were we not, Eloise?”

Lady Eloise’s neck stiffens, and she blinks several times. “We – were, in fact. Cousin Leonid has been quite mysterious about his family for someone so plain-spoken about his other intimate acquaintances.”

It’s something of a relief: she half-expected to be painted the villain the moment she laid eyes on his companions here. His _friends,_ however novel the idea is that her brother has somehow forged genuine relations in the crucible of disaster. At all, really. It’s – delightfully unexpected.

Still, she shifts again. She’s dressed too warmly for the tavern and sweat gathers between her shoulder blades. Alla had believed, when she shrugged off her armour and fur-lined clothes in the barracks, that the tavern would be as chill as it was earlier in the day when she’d first laid eyes on Leonid.

“It’s likely better for me this way,” she offers finally, reaching and tugging the laces at the base of her throat open so that she can breathe a little more freely. “I’d rather be an enigma than a portrait of _prejudice._ You know how he can be – and I would make an accurate impression, my lady. And lord,” she adds belatedly, with a quick, apologetic smile to Sacha. Who only looks distantly delighted – but she suspects that may be the way his features fall of their own accord.

“And what impression would you have that be,” asks Eloise, the edges of her words sharp as throwing knives. For a moment, the skin of her cheeks appears to darken as her eyes catch on the hollow of Alla’s throat, but –

Well. Certainly a trick of the light. She was polite enough in deflecting Alla’s attention. A lady oughtn’t need to repeat herself when her thoughts on the matter are decided.

To the point of it then. “Lady Eloise, I’m aware that it may have seemed, when Leonid introduced me to you, that I take issue with mages. I don’t.”

There’s a pause, during which Eloise’s features are frozen as absolutely as though she’s been shaped from ice. Alla glances at Sacha, who’s practically staring holes into his sister.

Did that seem disingenuous? Eloise  would be right to be suspicious, given the habitual treatment of mages and the reputation of Alla’s family, and if Leonid _has_ said something bizarre, Lady Eloise might think –

Alla tries smiling. “Maker knows where he would get that idea,” she continues. And then, with a quick glance at Sacha, “No doubt from the same fantastical corner of his mind wherein he also decided that anyone from Orlais must be _wretchedly evil_. Though clearly that didn’t take.” She clears her throat, readjusts, huffs out a little laugh to set herself firmly on task again. “Blessed Andraste, I _am_ talking myself around it, aren’t I? You’ll see Leonid and I share our ability to talk for ages. My point, Lady Eloise, is that I don’t harbour any ill will for mages. And,” she reaches out to catch Eloise’s hand in her own and gives it a brief, reassuring squeeze, “I should hate for you to think that I did.”

Alla drops Eloise’s hand, smiling in what she hopes is a warm way. In a way that will at least elicit _some_ sort of reaction –

The line of Eloise’s shoulders relaxes, her hand still lingering against the surface of the table. However, when she speaks, her voice is just as clipped as before. “I would hardly blame you if you did,” she says. “We don’t have the best reputation, as I am sure you are aware.”

Alla feels a sigh against her ribs, but she holds it within. No need to sound disappointed. She can hardly make friends with everyone – even, Alla thinks distantly, when the _everyone_ in question is especially lovely.

Across the table, Sacha’s chair creaks as he shifts, tilting his head as he watches the two of them. On his features, the same generous smile, though one edge grows a little more crooked. “Eloise is _always_ too hard on herself, Lady Alla. Why don’t you tell her what a good healer you are instead, my dear sister?”

Alla turns to her, interested. But instead of _offering_ anything, Lady Eloise only looks –

Mildly irritated, perhaps. Flushed.

It could very well be that she doesn’t care to share anything more with Alla. Or that she doesn’t wish to speak of magic, or all that’s befallen mages.

In any case, it’s as clear a signal as Alla needs.

“I should be going,” Alla says, plucking her cloak from the back of her chair. “But thank you for the drink and for the company.”

“So soon?” asks Sacha, standing as she does. Again, he shoots Eloise a look – a chastisement for chasing her off?

Which won’t stand. It’s hardly Lady Eloise’s _fault._

“Perhaps – another round?” Alla suggests, to mitigate some of the tension between the two siblings. Maker knows she lives with enough of that; she’d rather not _cause_ any more of it. “I would be happy to buy you both drinks. For being so very tolerant of my brother, at the very least, and so kind in your welcome to me.”

“Thank you, Lady Alla, but any more and I fear I will need someone to help me to bed,” says Sacha with a laugh. “Eloise, however…”

Lady Eloise remains silent for a moment, a blush resting high on her cheeks. And Alla’s certain of it now, though her skin is dark and the tavern dim. Her hand, which has laid on the table this whole time, drops to her lap. “I – would not have you spend your coin on me, Lady Alla.”

Sacha clears his throat. Alla looks at him, bewildered.

“Though should you wish to have company,” Eloise continues, “I would certainly – stay. And speak with you.”

It’s enough to leave her head spinning, warm as she is in the dim and crowded tavern. In the distance, she can hear her brother’s voice as he curses a blue streak over some apparent turn of ill luck at cards. “I’ll fetch us drinks,” she says slowly. She again sets her cloak down on the back of the chair to Lady Eloise’s side, and turns to thread her way downstairs.

Skyhold is, she thinks, a very curious place.

Though, truth be told, Alla had expected _less_ when first she left Ostwick to throw her lot in with the Inquisition. To track down Leonid and speak with him on all of the matters at hand. She’d believed the Inquisition might have amassed a handful of soldiers, a few advisors of note.

What she had found, instead, as a fledgling organization well on its way to becoming a powerhouse. As she edged further into Ferelden, the tales she heard only grew more impressive. And Skyhold, though in disrepair, is an impressive fortress; the Inquisitor’s advisors are more impressive yet. And the man himself –

There’s something _grand_ underway here, tucked away in the Frostbacks. She can feel it in her bones, and though Alla doesn’t consider herself a romantic – there is something mythic about the whole thing. She may not believe that the Inquisitor has been proffered up by a religious figure Alla suspects doesn’t exist, as her brother does, but she can see the good work being done. The work that yet remains, the bright and endless potential.

All that, and they’ve a fairly well-stocked tavern, and happy soldiers, and _two_ mercenary companies.

She’d already wanted to come and offer her aid. Now, the thought of turning back and heading to Ostwick again –

She sighs, and ignores the feeling rising inside her chest, tight and _tired._ Alla will do what’s necessary, so instead of fretting, she hails the barkeep and buys a drink for herself and another for Lady Eloise. It is, she thinks, a far better alternative to worrying over things beyond her control. Even if the entire interaction is a little – odd.

When she returns to the table tucked away in a corner upstairs, she finds Lady Eloise by herself, looking mildly panicked. Alla approaches, and her head turns. Their eyes meet, and Eloise again looks away.

Alla feels another sigh swell beneath her ribs. She tamps it down, and sets a drink down in front of Eloise. “So,” she says, taking her seat but positioning it far enough away that she doesn’t impose. “Sacha’s gone.”

Eloise doesn’t touch her drink. Instead, she says, firmly, “I like your hair.”

A hand flies to the tight plaits at the back of Alla’s head. “Oh, this?” she asks, a laugh flying from her throat. “Maker, just something I did on the road to get it out of the way.”

“It’s lovely,” says Eloise, curt. And then, a moment later, “Thank you for the drink.”

Alla huffs out another laugh, pausing to take a sip of the rather foul ale the dwarf served up downstairs. She watches Eloise out of the corner of her eye, taking note of the nervous way Eloise’s hands curl and uncurl in her lap. How she doesn’t quite know what to do with the tankard set before her.

Ah. Well. That would explain it, Alla thinks.

It would also explain why, when she glances across the room and catches her brother’s eye, Leonid looks absolutely horrified. Even though he’s half-crawled into Basten Adaar’s lap, his lips hovering about Basten’s pointed ear as he whispers something to the Qunari behind his cards. As soon as his gaze flicks between Alla and Eloise, an entirely unbecoming scowl flashes over his features – one that makes a Qunari woman at the table say something that immediately redirects Leonid’s ire _her_ way.

It doesn’t matter in any case. Alla chooses to ignore him. She instead smiles at Lady Eloise, resting one arm on the back of her own chair and leaning in a little closer. “Now _yours,_ my lady, is truly a work of art. Why don’t you tell me about your healing arts? I should love to hear how you came to your discipline.”

*

She’s up with the gray light of dawn, the dark barracks quiet except for the occasional rustling of blankets as a soldier rolls in place or the soft snores resulting from a great deal of drink accompanied by unrelenting exhaustion. Alla pushes herself up, shrugging off the scratchy blanket and pulling on some light clothes for training.

She picks her way past the narrow beds lining the space, slipping by arms that jut out from the cots – all hard elbows and loose wrists.

She would have expected for others to be up as early, but then this is but one barrack among many. And better here, she thinks, with heavy sleepers than the alternative: had Lady Montilyet had her way, Alla would have been further removed from this – _something more befitting your station, Lady Trevelyan_. But this, Alla thinks, slipping out the broad wooden door and heading off across the grounds, brown grass stiff with frost, _is_ befitting her station.

Even if she finds her own dedication a little more visible than those around her. It is something to which she’s not unaccustomed, being at the forefront of the pack. Leonid insists that Alla is _serious_ and _dull,_ but she –

Well, she supposes she can be. But she prefers to think of herself as diligent and stubborn and dedicated. Which is why she walks alone across the yard and past the armoury, where one of the women employed by the Inquisition had offered very kindly to hone the edge of her sword.

For now, a practice blade will suffice. Alla puffs out a breath, squinting up at the downy sky overhead. Smoke winds its way up from the kitchens, like a watercolour line drawn across the heavens. Hardly a surprise that the _staff_ would be up this early. For others, a little too much carousing means a later morning.

She takes a detour to the kitchens to charm her way to a cup of tea and a warm scone, just pulled from the oven. Though as far as charming goes, it’s a simple enough task. She finds an entrance into the kitchens, which nets here a series of wary stares and barbed, cursory _good morning_ s.

Alla smiles all the same. “Would you mind if I made myself some tea,” she asks, gesturing to a shelf with unused tea pots and kettles for boiling water.

“Made it yourself?” asks one of the girls, neck craning as she stares up at Alla. The girl’s a waif of a thing, with a child’s thin wrists and hollowed cheeks that speak of a childhood with never enough to eat.

“Of course,” Alla says. “You’re busy.” And, while it’s _true,_ the kitchen around them buzzing with activity as the day unfurls before them with its many mouths to feed and courses to prepare for the nobles who preen in the Great Hall and whisper things under their breath about the Inquisitor and his Inner Circle, it’s evidently also the right thing to say. Just like that the suspicious expression melts right off the scullery maid’s expression and she offers Alla a cup of their own.

Alla rather suspects that the kitchen staff are _told_ a little too often instead of being _asked._

Warmed and fed, she once again heads out into the cold morning, first taking a blunted practice blade to the yard for her morning exercises. It’s a slow start: the cold finds her fingers and toes long before she’s made her heart pound hard enough to warm her up. Soon, however, sweat prickles at the back of her neck, curling the hair that’s escaped her plaits. She works until her shoulders ache, until her mind is as free and clear as the sky above.

Until she’s nothing but a pulse and the slow, familiar burn of muscle.

It’s only when the soldiers begin to emerge from the barracks, rubbing grit from the corners of their eyes and puffing out yawns into the cold morning air, that she sets her blade aside and takes to the ramparts. How fortunate these soldiers are to have such training available, she thinks: stairs crawl up and down all over the keep, connecting the seemingly endless ramparts in a series of potential routes that is unparalleled in any facility in which Alla has trained. She rolls her shoulders, eyeing the set of stairs before her – just by the armoury, one that will allow her to pass over the main gate, to run past the tavern and toward the Commander’s office before looping back and angling herself toward Leonid’s quarters.

A good run. Alla takes off, thighs burning and the cold stinging the back of her neck and the sweat-damp skin between her shoulderblades. She chases her way up the stairs, looping back down again and dashing across ramparts until she can feel her pulse beating even in the very tips of her fingers.

It’s only when she turns back and heads toward the mage tower that she feels her thoughts slipping out of the blissful emptiness of training and toward more pressing matters. Leonid must be waking soon, she thinks, glancing up at the sun as she slows down, falling into an easy jog that would carry her forever. Surely, he can’t sleep any later.

Though whether or not he ended up getting much sleep remains unclear. Certainly, he stumbled from the tavern before Alla bade Lady Eloise farewell for the evening – loath though she was to do so when finally Eloise was, in fits and starts, beginning to soften – but then Leonid _was_ accompanied by Basten Adaar. And they _had_ been rather – attached at the hip.

She feels a spare smile tug at the corner of her lips. On both counts.

Alla climbs to the rampart extending from the mage’s tower, squinting toward the door over the gardens that she knows is her brother’s. Lady Montilyet had offered Alla quarters next to his, but Alla knew enough of her brother’s tendencies to decline.

Besides, as Alla had said then, she hardly wants to be made _separate_ because of her family name. She would earn a place here, no different than the men and women serving under Commander Cullen.

A sharp wind whistles through the Frostbacks, and Alla shivers for a moment, the tip of her nose cold. Her hands rest on her hips, blood still pounding against her eardrums as she stands and watches.

To her side, a door opens. She glances at the mage tower. The sun casts hard, angular shadows against the tower, but they’re not deep enough to hide the figure standing there.

“Well, good morning, Lady Eloise,” Alla says, a smile flashing across her face, a pleasant and familiar heat buzzing beneath her skin.

Eloise, for her part, goes perfectly still, hand resting on the door handle. Her eyes flash over Alla, from the escaped curls at the nape of her neck and her wind-flushed cheeks to her reddening fingertips and scuffed, low boots. A deliberate examination, and one that may, Alla fears, find her lacking.

A moment later, and she’s turned back inside, slamming the door behind her.

Lacking indeed, Alla thinks distantly, feeling some of the brightness of her morning fading, like a candle being slowly smothered in a jar.

She has enough time to sigh and wonder where, precisely, she managed to go wrong between her faltering conversation with Lady Eloise last night and the startled expression and swift exit that greeted her this morning. A breath later, the door opens again, and Lady Eloise emerges once more on to the wind-swept ramparts. This time, her braids are tugged more firmly into place, though it’s something Alla notices only because Eloise’s hand lingers for a moment near the curve of her cheek, swiping a tight plait behind one ear.

“Hello,” she says, clipped.

An uncomfortable pause hovers beneath the wide sky, during which Alla is at a complete loss for words. Something self-conscious and unfamiliar twists at her stomach.

Then, Eloise adds, “I – didn’t expect to see you.”

“No, I suppose it is rather _unexpected,”_ Alla says, trying for a quick laugh that catches in her throat. “Though I daresay I might have been more frightening still were I running about with my sword.” She reaches to push an escaped strand of her hair from her temple, wiping the sweat there with her cuff. To make herself at least slightly more presentable. Had she known she would run into Lady Eloise –

The woman in question looks away, out toward the staggered courtyards below. “It _is_ a good morning. The cloud cover has entirely… disappeared.”

Alla feels a crooked smile curve her lips. To discuss _weather,_ she thinks, while she fusses with wild curls of hair and is uncharacteristically aware of just how well-worn these light training clothes are. To exchange _pleasantries_ with such a lady.

Ah, well. Best mitigate her appearance and her circumstance with a little charm; it is, she thinks, worth the effort. Resolved, Alla walks slightly closer. “True enough, my lady. Of course,” she adds, smile growing a little crooked, “It’s a better morning now.”

“Oh?” asks Lady Eloise, though her eyes narrow just enough to tell Alla that she knows precisely what’s coming next.

A wiser woman might not say it, then. To be thought predictable!

Alla can’t help herself. “As _you’re_ now in it, I could hardly ask for a finer start to the day.”

Eloise scoffs, stepping out on to the ramparts and closing the door behind her. She looks – irritated, more than anything else.

Perhaps she’s gone too far, then, Alla thinks as another violently cold gust of wind roars through the mountains. Eloise’s robes billow around her; for a moment, she looks as though she lives inside the wind, as though she’s become one with it. For a woman so utterly _controlled,_ it’s a contrast… entirely transfixing.

Alla does her best not to stare. And distraction finds her soon enough. The wind is wretchedly cold: a hard shiver works its way down her spine. She rubs her hands briskly against her thighs.

“It _is_ a good morning,” Eloise says after a moment, still looking irritated though the tips of her ears have darkened. “Though perhaps a little cold to be out in… hardly anything.”

Alla tilts her head. If she’s not mistaken, Eloise – may very well be _concerned._

The thought warms Alla more readily than were she tucked away by a fire. Perhaps not _too_ far with her predictable comment, then. “No need to worry, my lady,” she offers. “I’ve trained in many circumstances a great deal less pleasant.”

“And what,” says Eloise, tone flat, “does _training_ entail?”

Alla rolls her shoulders, tugging at the collar of her tunic, which is glued to her collarbone, to her ribs, by sweat. “A great deal of swinging a blade,” she says happily. “I’m sure much of it would be familiar to you, as Sacha no doubt engages in similar exercises. I spend a great deal of time _running_ as well. It’s no good to be able to cleave an enemy in two if I can’t chase him across a battlefield, after all.”

Eloise’s eyebrows raise, mouth twisted into a skeptical line. “And you do a great deal of _cleaving_ of your enemies? In Ostwick?”

Alla laughs then, reaching to tuck stray curls of hair back in place. Yes, Lady Eloise _would_ be accustomed to her brother’s – tales. She shades her eyes so that she can see Eloise a little more clearly. “Not a great deal within the city, no. It’s generally frowned upon, not only by the city guard but also, and perhaps most seriously, by my parents. I’ve put time in with other forces, however. I joined up once in Lydes under a false name.” She shifts her weight, tries for a charming smile. “Of course, it only took Mother a season to track me down. It was rather stupid of me to go to Lydes, of all places, but I wanted to see my sister. In her letters, she –” Alla stops, half-laughs again. Blows thoughtlessly into her cold hands. No need to drag that particular ghost up yet, not when she has yet to speak with Leonid about Yuliya’s current – situation. “Ah, well,” she concludes, with an easy smile that she can make because still the blessed delight of her training numbs her to some of her perennial concerns. “Old stories.”

Above them, the winds tear across the blue sky. Alla again reaches to wipe drying sweat from her temple, glancing toward the horizon beyond the tower: its peaked mountains, like the tips of arrows ever pointing upward. Better she think on that than the very foolish fluttering in her stomach.

“Stories – I should like to hear,” Eloise says after a moment, “if you’d care to tell them.”

The sun, crawling its way toward the peak of the sky, is a white orb, but still its light catches on the clasps of Eloise’s robe, glinting on the ornate braids that look desperately, wondrously soft.

“Then I should like to tell them, Lady Eloise,” she murmurs, watching the other woman steadily – her dark gaze, the flush resting across her cheeks. Similar to the heat Alla feels inching its way up her neck, despite the vicious cold.

Entirely unexpected, to come for so many other things and to find –

Perhaps something.

Still, duty calls. “I’m afraid that, for the moment, I must speak first with my brother. Do you know when I can expect him?”

“To be up?” Eloise asks, and then barks out a laugh. “Not for hours yet. Although he did leave with Basten, who keeps a much more reasonable schedule, and thus cousin Leonid should be awake for a small window this morning.” She turns, glancing out across the gardens. “And – yes. How fortuitous.”

Alla also turns and sees the Qunari emerge from a doorway above the gardens. Leonid’s familiar head of horribly silver hair follows a second later. Unlike Basten, who wears the same clothes he did last night when first Alla laid eyes on him, Leonid is wrapped in a blanket. Even at the distance, she can see one hand flash out and catch Basten’s wrist. Can make out how Leonid tugs the Qunari closer, pushing himself up on his toes as he catches Basten’s mouth in a kiss that is anything _but_ perfunctory.

Alla shoots a quick look at Eloise. “Leonid insists they’re not actually _involved,”_ she says. “In any meaningful way.”

Eloise’s gaze flicks back to Alla, her lips an unimpressed line – though there may be something like fondness behind her dark eyes. “Your brother thinks a great many things, Lady Alla. So few are accurate reflections of reality.”

“Maker, that _is_ true.” A laugh, and, then, because she’s cold and warm at the same time, because her mind is still broad and beautiful as the sky above with the echoes of her training, Alla leans over and catches Eloise’s hand with her own.

Her fingers are warm and soft beneath Alla’s, though she looks – surprised. Unsteady, perhaps.

Alla smiles all the same. “You should know, Lady Eloise, that Leonid’s tendency to _misrepresent_ is not one I share. I’m a forthright woman.” She drops Eloise’s hand with a sly smile and a shrug of her shoulders. “In case you had wondered,” she adds, slipping toward the rampart beyond the mage tower – the one that will carry her to her brother. “If your mind ever had cause to turn on such a thing.”

Eloise watches her go, but, just before Alla leaves earshot, she adds, quiet and almost half-surprised, “A good morning indeed.”

*

Leonid has just collapsed on his bed again, which still smells like sex and like Basten and, very distantly, like smoke from the tiny fire burning away in the hearth, when a hard knock sounds against his door.

Of course, it’s hardly a surprise. And though Leonid knows he ought to be insisting he see _less_ of Basten, he –

Well. He is permitted this much self-indulgence. Particularly after witnessing the way Alla had leaned close to Eloise last night, how Eloise had flushed and looked at his sister with an expression he’d never seen her wear before. How when Leonid finally hissed into Basten’s ear that he was entirely ready to be fucked until they managed to break Leonid’s new headboard, his hand firm and insistent on the inside of Basten’s thigh, Alla and Eloise had _still_ been talking quietly in some dark corner of the tavern. Even with Leonid had stumbled past their table, Basten a half-step behind, his _sister_ and his _friend_ had been singularly focused on _each other_.

Vile. Enough to make him sick. Bad enough that Alla just show up and elbow her way into his life here. Worse that she – _poach_ Eloise. That she make _those_ eyes at his friend, who is rightly Leonid’s.

And so some Basten is entirely in order. Again. Even though he’s still got fresh bruises imprinted on his hips and thighs. How Basten had _apologized_ in the early hours of the morning. “If I _minded,”_ Leonid had said, mouth lingering against the soft skin of his shoulder, “I’d fuck a soldier. Or… an elf. Or – I don’t know – start having exceedingly boring sex that does nothing at all requiring creative leveraging.”

He stands, stretches. Rolls his shoulders and runs a hand through his hair. Hitching the blanket around his hips, Leonid wanders over to the door. “You know,” he says as he hauls it open. “One of these days Kubrasan’s going to figure out _I’m_ the reason you’re late for training, and that is a day I’m not looking forward –”

Leonid stops. Blinks.

_“No,”_ he says, flat. “I’m not up yet.”

“You are,” says Alla, who’s flushed, whose hair has started to slip from its dreadful series of complex knots. Who has most certainly been _training,_ because of course she’d waste no time doing that, even if she’d been up to all hours of the night with Eloise, doing –

Maker preserve him, it had best be _nothing._

“We’ve things to discuss, Leonid,” she says, firm.

_“No,”_ Leonid repeats. He shoves at the door, but Alla catches it and shoulders her way inside.

Leonid sputters as she passes by him, merrily making her way directly into _his_ quarters. And when Basten had _only_ just left, curse her to the Void and back. “I could have –” he starts, indignant. “There might have been someone here, Alla!”

She turns, shoots him a quizzical look. “There was,” Alla says. “Basten Adaar. I’ve heard good things about his company.”

_His company_. But surely she means Kata-Meraad. _Surely,_ judging from the placid expression on her face, the guileless brightness in her eyes. She can’t mean –

“He wasn’t _here,”_ insists Leonid, drawing the blanket around his hips more tightly. “I mean, I certainly _had_ him last night, but I don’t allow anyone to stay. It’s one of my rules.”

“One of your rules,” she repeats.

“Yes,” says Leonid. “I have a number of them.”

Alla’s smile sharpens at its corners, very slightly. “How very odd, then,” she says breezily. “I saw him leave only a moment ago.”

Leonid freezes. Feels suddenly the cold air against his chest, the chill creeping down his neck, the precise _weight_ of that _blighted knowing smile_. As if – As if she knows the _first_ thing about _anything,_ as if she somehow thinks that –

Just because he breaks his rules for Basten, or –

Just because –

He shoots her his darkest, most vicious glare. “Fuck _off,”_ Leonid spits. “And mind your own blighted business.”

Alla smiles, though, and shrugs as if she’s unperturbed. A moment later, she clasps her hands behind her back, pivoting to wander around his quarters – _his_ quarters! – and look at _all of his things_ while he throws her a look pointed enough to cut. She pauses in front of the painting of the horse with its tattered canvas, its crooked frame. “Oh,” she says, “I like this one. _Portrait Of A Malnourished Horse_. An exquisite example of the _underfed animal_ movement out of Montsimmard in the early Blessed Age.”

“You’re not _funny,”_ Leonid snaps, turning his back on her as he looks for some trousers. After all, she’s clearly not _going_ anywhere and he imagines he’ll feel a great deal more comfortable speaking with her if he’s less… naked.

“Oh, that’s right,” Alla sighs from the far side of the room. “I’m meant to be _serious_ and _dull._ I’d forgotten. Forgive me: I shall henceforth endeavour to be significantly more dour.”

“Good,” says Leonid, hauling on a pair of pale breeches made from soft deerskin. He tugs the laces tight, pulling a loose tunic over his shoulders and then turning on her.

Alla’s squinting at his bow and the series of arrow’s he’s been practicing with. “Don’t –” he starts as she reaches out and picks one up, his hand jerking out as though he can stop her from across the room.

“Did _you_ do this?” she asks, turning to stare at him. One of the feathers has come undone and is dangling very sadly to the side.

He stiffens. Straightens and folds his arms across his chest. “I –” He stops, waiting for her inevitable criticism. Her _thoughts_ on his _inadequacy._

She looks down at the arrow, then back up to Leonid. For a moment, Leonid feels all of _eleven_ again, as if his older sister is again laughing at his meagre archery efforts. _Try to hit the target next time, Lenya_ , she’d chuckled. _And maybe draw far enough to see the arrow go farther than an arm’s span_.

He waits for it, but the superior chiding never comes. Instead, she says, “Leonid, the stitching shows great promise. You’ve a delicate touch. That will serve you well if you continue to practice.”

Leonid stares at her. _Alla,_ saying – that. Offering… _encouragement_ and _support,_ as if Leonid cares at all, as if she somehow has the right to just – be generous.

Well. It can’t stand. He huffs. “I’m very nimble, you know. It’s hardly surprising I’d pick it up easily. That’s what they always say: Leonid, such a _delicate touch_. Hardly a great leap from one sort of shaft to another.”

Alla should look disgusted. Her forehead should crease, her eyes flash dark, her mouth twist into a disappointed downward line. Instead, she snorts and sets the arrow back down. “I don’t think many men would find that comparison flattering, brother,” with her lips twitching at the edges. Like she’s amused.

It’s an accurate observation, an entirely foolish pun that does none of what he’d hoped and has some ill-advised… implications. And still she has the audacity to look –

Well, almost fond.

It is entirely disgusting; were he not beset with the vaguest notion of decency, he would push his way out of his door and vomit into the gardens on the heads of contemplative worshippers.

Clearly, Leonid thinks, Alla has been possessed. A demon has stolen her body and come to Skyhold to – attack the Inquisitor and end the world. And to make Leonid miserable, which is possibly even worse.

He sighs, a long sound that draws his shoulders downward. This little conversation is unavoidable, he supposes. He might as well make himself comfortable. Leonid shoulders his way past Alla, where she still stands by his bow and _depressing_ arrows, and throws himself in one of the sagging chairs by the fire. “What do you want, Alla?” he asks, shooting her a look over his shoulder, past the tattered yellow fabric of the chair.

She moves to the other chair, one in even _worse_ condition, its thick fabric one of the most garrish patterns Leonid has ever set eyes on, and settles down. Lank curls of hair stick to her temples, the nape of her neck – sweat-damp and chilled. She leans forward, elbows planted on her knees. For a moment, Alla just watches him, her light stare like a hawk’s. And with the broken nose, she does look rather predatory, as though she might just swoop down and catch him in her talons.

He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable.

“Leonid,” she begins, solemn.

He rolls his eyes. That tone is one he knows intimately: its nearest correlation is _I am your older sister, so let me explain the ways in which the world works to you, dearest Lenya who knows nothing_. He hates it almost as much as – well, plenty of things. Iona, perhaps, or his ancient and inordinately wealthy aunt. When being less didactic, Ala usually ranks better than their most boring sibling and most wrinkled relative.

Leonid smiles at her, something sickly sweet. _“Alla,”_ he says, in the very same tone, only dripping at its very edges with scorn.

That tiny smile flickers across her lips again – like she finds him _amusing_ – and he scoffs and rolls his eyes. Wretched.

“I know you think me very devout, brother,” Alla tries, her voice steady, firm in the same way the Inquisitor’s is.

It is the worst comparison to have flash in his mind, but there it is, and he sighs and looks at her again, propping his chin up with one hand. “And I take it that’s not accurate,” he says. “Or so you’re about to insist.”

“It’s _not_ accurate.” Alla’s hands are clasped firmly together. Other people might fidget; their fingers might twitch, they might rub their palms together. She doesn’t. “My only devotion is to a world made better, and your Inquisition is doing just that. I would offer my hand to aid the Inquisitor’s efforts. I know I’m not necessary, but it certainly _means_ a great deal more than sitting in the parlour at home and watching time slip by. Hoping distantly that things get better while attending the parties that continue on as if nothing has happened. I have no ulterior motive in this, Leonid. I don’t come here to make your life miserable or… to _intervene._ Difficult as it may be for you to believe, I am not either of our parents.”

He watches her, examines the crease between her eyebrows. The genuine turn of her mouth. How she leans forward, earnest.

Leonid knows she’s not like their parents. That’s never been his problem.

Still, he won’t go turning away help the Inquisition could possibly use. However irritated it makes him feel. For all her dullness, Alla is _capable._ Dutiful. Loyal, no matter the cost.

He sighs again, gaze flicking over to the fire. “Fine,” he says. “I _believe you_.”

For a brief moment, Alla smiles, a bright expression that reminds him of summers spent at their aunt’s river estate. Of chasing after her as they made their way to the docks through forests of cattails, over stones and rotten logs and toward the endlessly glinting water.

A moment later, and it’s gone with a suddenness that leaves him, for a moment, reeling. Again, he’s at Skyhold: in his quarters, which remain drafty despite the patch in the roof, which remain cold despite the fire. Here with his sister while the world falls to pieces. “Of course,” she continues, “there are other matters I must bring to your attention.”

Leonid looks away, staring at the sooty fire. He sniffs. “No doubt. So tell me, what is it this time? Have I been disowned, my portrait removed from the hall, my name stricken from all family records? Leonid Trevelyan, a disgrace and a heretic, but always rather dashing. Pity: mine was the best looking of the paintings by an unfathomable measure.”

“Do you think? I’d always thought Ekaterina’s rather more attractive.”

He snorts, glancing back at his sister. “ _You’re_ hardly one to measure. Whereas _I_ am perfectly objective.”

Alla laughs, then, but it’s one that fades quickly – like the warmth of embers turned to ash. With a sigh, Alla continues. “No, Leonid, nothing like that. It’s – I came largely because of Yuliya.”

“Because of –” He stops, something like a shard of ice jagged in his stomach. A familiar, awful certainty constricting his chest. “She’s dead.”

He knows this feeling, the hollowness in his chest, the feeling of cotton against his eardrums. Though why he should care, why he should be bothered when they haven’t spoken for ages, when she _left_ and became _someone else_ –

For a moment, he can’t breathe.

Then, Alla shakes her head. “No. She –” She sighs again, the creases beneath her eyes making her look tired, which makes the coldness in Leonid’s gut spread to his lungs. Burn itself into his bones, a chill that won’t leave. For _Alla_ to look weary.

She shifts. Now her fingers do tangle together, uneasy. “Yuliya’s left the Order, Leonid. And we haven’t been able to find her a steady supply of lyrium. It has been – difficult. And dangerous. I thought perhaps I might be able to find some guidance here.”

“Some _guidance,”_ he repeats, the word numb in his mouth. Yuliya, a _defector._ Although, he thinks distantly, that does put her in excellent company, which turns his mind to Sacha. Who is precisely the sort of man who _ought_ to be addressing this. Not – Maker, not _Leonid._

“This is the sort of thing you should speak to Sacha about,” he says plainly. “I don’t know a thing about lyrium, but he’s a Templar. He would know.”

_Difficult,_ she said, _and dangerous_.

Leonid would rather not know.

“In any case,” he adds, “I’m glad she left. One less Templar to become enslaved to Corypheus – and one less I’m forced to kill.”

Alla stares at him, mouth turned downward. “One less to kill, yes.” Words that sound flat, sharp.

It’s like speaking the words jerks him back in time, his heart beating an unsteady rhythm against his chest. For a moment, he can feel the hot spatter of blood across his cheeks, the tremor that lived in his hands, the sharp ache of the desperate knowledge that everyone he cared about was dead… and the looming fear that the next throat he slashed would be his sister’s. He feels it, just there, beneath his skin – but he scoffs all the same. “Of course,” he says, a little breathless. Chest a little too tight to be comfortable. “You’re a practical woman. You understand.”

She says nothing for a moment, just looks away. A hard breath escapes her lips, one as honed as the edge of her sword.

Leonid shifts in the ragged seat. In the fireplace, a log cracks, a sharp sound that makes him jump. He hates himself for it: there’s no _need_ for – panic. Not here. And his friends _hadn’t_ been dead, and Yuliya _wasn’t_ a red Templar, _isn’t_ a red Templar, and everything is fine.

Everything will be fine. The Herald is that promise embodied.

He clears his throat to break the silence, colder than if he were wandering the Frostbacks in nothing more than the blanket he’d had on when Alla first forced her way in. “Though you might as well have her brought here, Alla. Regardless of what Sacha says about securing lyrium, _here_ is safest. Besides, we may not speak, Yuliya and I, but that hardly means I want her to suffer being in the same house with Mother and Father.” A pause, then, “And _Viktor._ Maker, if she’s left the Order, he must be even _more_ unbearable. I’d have thought it impossible, but without me to bear at least some of his righteous scorn, I’m sure Yuliya is feeling its full weight.”

“Viktor, yes,” she murmurs, some of the chill leaving her stare. “He can be – a bit much. Which puts me in mind of what else we must discuss. I’ve come to warn you, Leonid.”

His eyes flare open, and he leans forward, unbidden. _“Warn_ me! Why, how very ominous.”

Again, Alla sighs. Again, she looks tired. She frowns. “It’s Viktor.”

“What, is _he_ dead?” He spares a half thought to wonder what it says about the world that his first assumption is that his siblings have died, and then decides to stop himself before he falls too deeply into that abyss. He _knows_ what it means; he wishes that he didn’t.

“No, he’s not dead,” says Alla. “But he has been – making noises.”

Leonid snorts, picking at a loose thread on the fabric of his chair. “What kind of noises? Wicked noises?” he intones, though he’s no doubt this conversation will take another entirely unpleasant turn. “How scandalized our parents must be! He is, after all, the most _ideal_ of their children.”

This time, she doesn’t laugh. “Unfortunately,” Alla says, careful with the syllables, “Viktor is a little too invested in those ideals. He recently announced – _announced,_ mind you, at _dinner_ – that he’d decided against taking a wife. That he’s forgoing _earthly unions_ so that he might have a closer relationship with Andraste and the Maker.”

_“What,”_ Leonid hisses, leaning closer again. “As in – I’m sorry, he’d like to be the third party in their divine union?”

For a moment, Alla smiles, fleeting. “Quite so. And at the cost of a wife and an heir to the family name. And so Mother and Father are beside themselves. Father’s taken our dear brother to Aunt Regina’s country estate with the hope of – winning him over. He’s even recruited a prominent Chantry scholar out of Val Royeaux to speak on the virtues of _earthly unions_. But should Father fail, should Viktor persist –”

She looks at him as though she expects him to complete the thought.

He can’t. Leonid blinks at her, forehead creased. “Then – you’ll just have to have more babies, Alla. Hardly ideal, but –”

“No, Leonid,” Alla says, tone flat. “It will fall to you. They’ll want you married and fathering children before the year is out.”

They’ll want him –

He sucks in a hard shocked breath, surging to his feet, heart slamming against his ribs. As though he’s just bolted across a battlefield only to find _more_ endless enemies. A barren wasteland of _expectation,_ of pitfalls and snares and the assurance that he will never, ever be free. “They’ll want – I’m not _doing that_ , Alla. Fuck the line, that’s – It’s _your job_! If he can’t fulfill _his_ duty, it’s _yours!”_

She stays seated, though his sister leans back, folds her arms hard across her chest. She scowls up at him. “I will not proffer my body to the altar of lineage. It’s _not_ something I want. Besides, even were I willing to… do that to myself, any heir I would produce in any way that would be acceptable to me would be unacceptable to our parents. And you know I cannot marry a man.” A pause, and the frown becomes a little sadder, becomes something that almost _frightens_ Leonid. “I –” she starts.

Alla stops. She looks away, a hard breath escaping her throat. “I _can’t,_ Leonid,” she says finally. “Not even for our family.”

Something twists beneath his breastbone, like the edge of a blade. A keen ache flaring just there, against his sternum. He swallows, forces himself to choke down a cold breath.

Alla hasn’t told him he has to do this. She’s only – warned him.

Leonid makes himself sit, though his joints feel stiff. Though his heart still thumps against his chest. “Well,” he says, slow, “of _course_ you can’t but – Maker, we both know I can’t be the _steward_ of our line either.”

“It may not come to pass,” she offers. “Father still hopes he might persuade Viktor.”

“And Iona is out of the question?” It would, after all, be Iona’s only shot at marriage: if their parents forced some girl to accept his hand.

“Entirely,” says Alla, curt and dismissive. Of course she would have already considered it; Alla isn’t the sort to leave any stone unturned. “His commitment to the Chantry comes before any other. And Yuliya might as well not exist.” She pauses, then sighs. “I just wanted to warn you, Leonid. This is not – I’m not telling you this is a role you ought to accept. That’s not what I’m saying. Only that… should Viktor remain steadfast, our parents will turn their attentions to you. You should be prepared.”

“But what should I _do?”_ he asks, bewildered. As though he’s been turned loose in the middle of the woods without a map or any notion of how to get to _safety._ Alone in hostile, unfamiliar territory, like being back in the fucking Hinterlands before he stumbled into Sacha and Eloise. Though, surely, these are realms _Alla_ must know; these are expectations she’s been navigating for years. “How do I – _proceed_ if they do decide they need me to be their son once again? Alla, I don’t know – What do I _do_?”

His last words come out weaker than he means them to, a little more ragged. They sound like they belong to the boy he was, not the man he _is._

They also make her eyes soft. Concerned.

Which should upset him. Instead, it makes him feel once again like the child whose sister saved him again and again from ruin. It _almost_ makes him feel safe.

“You should stay away,” she says finally. Firm. Resolute. “Stay here with the Inquisition. I can shoulder the weight of their focus; I would have you continue to be free of it, should that be what you wish.” She pauses, looks at the little fire and then back at him. “Maker, it _has_ been awful without you, though. Between Viktor and Father, and Mother with her _plans,_ and Yuliya’s – struggles…”

Leonid blinks at her, this unfamiliar woman who looks so very much like his sister, who _is_ like her – dutiful and forthright and protective – but who is also nothing like what he expects from her. Alla is never weary. Or doubtful, or frustrated with their family – beyond, of course, her irritations with her youngest and extraordinarily handsome sibling.

She certainly never looks _defeated,_ not like this. Besides, “Why?” he asks, says the word slowly, warily. “We were never allies, you and I.”

“No,” Alla admits. “And that fault rests with me. I should have been – kinder. Though,” she says, her stare growing darker in the dim little room Leonid calls home, “you don’t always make it _easy,_ Leonid.”

He laughs, delighted. “Of course not! Where’s the fun in that?”

Irritating though she is – and she _is_ – it’s hardly fair that she – assume this weight. That she stand alone under their parents’ scrutiny.

“I _am_ good at deflecting attention, however,” he adds, voice softer than he intends. Then, with a wave of one hand, “Shall I write to Mother? Divert her panic my way, at least while you’re doing your best to avoid being drawn into a marriage? That way, you can escape with Yuliya while she’s panicking over _me,_ and by the time she realizes, we’ll all be here. And Mother’s hardly going to set foot in Ferelden. It may be a vile place, Alla, but it is also a haven for us.”

The word hurts in his mouth, scrapes against his cheeks. A _haven_.

He pushes past it. “So I’ll write, then. I’ve been falling behind in my letters in any case. What shall I detail to horrify her the most?”

Alla’s quiet for a moment. Outside of the little room, the winds roar through the mountains, his little fire flaring brighter as fresh air gusts down the chimney.

“No,” she says finally. “It’s fine, Leonid. I’m glad you got away. If you’re _also_ glad, we’ll keep it that way.”

Leonid scoffs, feeling warmer and more pleased than he has when speaking to his sister since –

Well, likely since they were children. Since she schooled him in archery and he hit his first target. When he did manage to draw resolutely enough to catch the very edge of a bull’s eye. How Alla had whooped with delight and ruffled his hair. How he’d felt so very expansive, he thought he might burst.

“It hardly matters to me whether you or I are the root of her panic,” he says, crossing one ankle over the other. “No doubt Father will convince Viktor to be _dutiful,_ and you’ll send for Yuliya and we’ll all be here – you and Yuliya and I –  horrifying her at a distance. The scandal! The heresy! The _debauchery!_ Though – Alla.”

“Yes?” she asks.

“If I _do_ write about one of any number of scandals and she dies from the horror, you _will_ give me half of your inheritance, yes?”

She laughs, jerking back in her chair – as surprised by the sound as he is. “Half, Leonid? Hardly. A third I might manage. Swords are expensive!”

Leonid scoffs, sprawled across his sad little chair. “So are arrows, sister, and you’ve already seen my _efforts.”_

She leans forward again, eyebrows raised in something _very_ akin to – affection. Delight. Expressions she oughtn’t wear, but does nonetheless; expressions he oughtn’t care about but –

Does. Perhaps in the smallest measure.

“Let us try,” Alla says, “for a moment of honesty: arrows are not terribly expensive. Alcohol, on the other hand…”

He waves a hand. “That too.”

They watch each other for a long moment, Leonid’s mouth curled into a crooked smile that, he thinks distantly, she may never have seen before. On her lips, a matching expression.

Sometimes, it’s like looking in a mirror. Except… his side is much more handsome. And interesting. And also charming and witty. And well-dressed.

“Very well,” she says finally, with a dramatic and exasperated sigh. “Half. But if I kill her when I mention Eloise, it will be a mere tenth.”

He nearly chokes on the breath he’s taking, all the laxness gone from his frame as he jerks upright. “ _What do you mean mention Eloise?_ ” he hisses, eyes wide, syllables thin and panicked.

Alla only laughs, eyes glinting with delight. She pushes herself up, brushing the dust from the cushion from the backs of her legs. “Oh, I expect you’ll find out soon enough. Until later, brother. I’ve heard the Qunari mercenaries practice in the upper courtyard. I’m most interested to see them in action.”

And like that, Leonid still staring after her in absolute horror, she leaves his quarters, disappearing into the bright day beyond. He’ll have to speak to Sacha about this, he thinks. For _assurance._ For –

_The Qunari mercenaries_ , Alla said, a wry little smile on her face, eyes bright with interest. _Most interested to see them in action_.

Andraste’s _tits._ Leonid leaps to his feet, hauling on a light coat before taking off out the door to chase her down. In no version of reality will he have the two of them meeting or, Maker forbid, _talking to each other_. Bad enough she’s already found a kindred spirit in Eloise. He can’t have –

“Alla!” he cries, dashing toward the ramparts, where she’s already heading. She pivots, standing at the far edge of the walkway, and shoots him a quizzical look.

Well, he can hardly say _don’t you dare_. That would be, for his truly awful sister, an _invitation,_ and he doesn’t need any more of her – stubborn _diligence_ turned toward Basten. Or Leonid and Basten. Or their –

Casual dalliance.

He clears his throat, wipes some of the panic from his features, and fixes his attention on the only thing that will draw her away from a scent when she’s hot on its trail. “I’ve been practicing,” he says. “Care to see who’s the better shot now?”

A delighted smile breaks over her face. “Only if you shoot the arrows you’ve fletched, Leonid.”

“Very well,” he concedes, though it’s hardly fair, when _she’ll_ get to shoot with ones made by _proper armourers_. Who don’t have kitten fingers. Still, if he must lose to her to protect the modicum of privacy he’s gathered around himself in this place, so be it. “My own arrows.”

She waits expectantly as he ducks back inside and grabs his bow and quiver. Quickly as he can, so she doesn’t change her mind, he clambers to her side and they work their way toward the ramparts. Far better this, he thinks as they climb the stairs side-by-side, Alla damnably _quick_ and dreadfully _unwinded_ by the time they get to the top of the third switchback, than the other possibility.

Far better his sister than –

Well. The sister he thought he had. This Alla is less the sort who’d watch his house burn, he thinks as she starts in about _bowstrings_ and _fletching choices_ and _flex_ while he nods blithely to make it seem like he’s listening, and more the sort who’d drag him to safety.

Disgusting. But not necessarily – unwelcome.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [enviouspride](http://enviouspride.tumblr.com) and [weyrbound](http://weyrbound.tumblr.com) and [openthepocketwatch](openthepocketwatch.tumblr.com) for their comments and encouragement, with special thanks to weyrbound and enviouspride for creating such top notch characters, who I've merrily abducted. You are, simply put, the best.


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